Theoden sat dully on his throne, staring straight ahead into the distance while his court crumbled around him. A pale man, sitting in the throne’s shadow, watched the whispering Rohirric courtiers with some distaste.

I never liked any of them, he thought with irritation. I hate pretending to fawn over the king all the time… the senile old man!

Grima’s dark eyes flickered across the room as his long, nervous tongue snaked out to moisten his lips. That fool Eomer will stay by Theodred’s bedside until he’s recovered… or dead. I can’t speed the process; such a pity. But the Lady… Grima’s eyes crossed the room again, striving to catch the glint of white that was Eowyn’s gown.

Give up on her, whispered a cruel voice in his head. She’ll never love you. She loves Theodred.

Quiet! Grima thought vehemently. She will! I swear it.

You’re more senile than the old man on the throne, the voice taunted him. You were a fool to make that deal with Saruman.

No! Against his will, Grima remembered the day when the White Wizard had requested his assistance for the dubious matters ahead…

~~~

“So, Grima, what say you?” Saruman’s voice was low and persuasive, his eyes deep and wise. Grima was a young man of twenty years, overawed that the White Wizard himself should seek to speak with such a humble man.

“I–I–I don’t know what to say, sire,” he stammered.

“Then say nothing,” said Saruman mildly.

“Stil, s-sir, the k-k-king will be terribly…”

“The king will not know if you carry out your task to the letter,” replied Saruman. “Do we have an agreement?”

“W-what is my payment?” asked Grima.

“That depends on what you desire,” said Saruman. He closed his eyes, concentrating deeply. “You don’t seem to want gold or power… what is it that you do want…?” His voice trailed off. When Saruman’s eyes opened, they were gleaming.

“Ah. The king’s niece. I see. Well, Grima, do your task and I will see that she is yours.”

Grima’s eyes shone with the fervor brought on by hopeless love and loveless hope. “I swear it!”

~~~

No! Grima snapped out of the memory, blinking back tears. I’ve betrayed my king… what will she think of me?

She hates you already, said the second voice mockingly. It began to laugh, a maniacal, hysterical sound that only Grima heard.

Silence! I command you to be SILENT! The eerie laughter subsided, and Grima found himself alone in the huge hall, save for Theoden. The old king was leaning against the side of his throne, drooling as he snored. Grima turned away in distaste and stood. He was almost knocked over by Eomer as the Third Marshal exited Theodred’s room. Eomer shot him a look full of hatred before stalking out through the front doors of Meduseld.

Then Theodred is dead… thought Grima. Ah, my king, what have I done to you? An image crossed his mind of Eowyn, cold and white, weeping by Theodred’s bedside. He turned decisively towards the door. It was time to profess his love for her.

No more hesitation.